


no other option

by Spaghettoi



Series: piano is evil [2]
Category: Sleepy Bois Inc
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Blood and Violence, Gen, One More Time, PogU are wilbur how does it feel, Trains, guess what its in second person yahoo, its zombies i mean, uhhhh soothouse is there but ive never actually watched any of them so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:40:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25364749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spaghettoi/pseuds/Spaghettoi
Summary: You have been on this train forever.--(more zapoc. more second person.)
Series: piano is evil [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1836814
Comments: 18
Kudos: 57





	no other option

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sapphicist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphicist/gifts).



You have been on this train forever. 

For as much as you like to hyperbolize, this is one bit that's true. When the thing rolls to a silent stop into an otherwise plain, grey train station, it's almost comforting in the deja vu that washes over you. The doors heave open, and the station is empty, just like always. You don't get off. None of you do; this isn't your stop. 

You don't think anyone else knows the trains still run. For as long as you've been alive—19 long, long years—you've gone undisturbed. At least, undisturbed to the outside world, because it's in that moment that Charlie jostles your shoulder. 

"Wil," he says, and you try to suppress a sigh, "what time d'you think it is up there?"

Instinctually, your eyes dart to the bright red numbers above the door to the train car. Charlie literally grabs your face, squishing your cheeks together, and forces you to look away. "Don't cheat," he hisses with a grin, and you raise your hands up cullingly. 

See, there's the issue. You live here, on this train, and wherever it takes you is wherever you live. The lights are on. Always, the lights are on. Someone (maybe Dan?) said once that it's all solar powered. You've half a mind to believe him, too, considering that right before sunrise they tend to dim and flicker as if running out of steam. Not that you've ever seen a sunrise—never mind. Fluorescents lit by the sun, bringing it's light but never it's heat down into the depths of the earth. You shiver. 

"I dunno," you mutter. Your eyes dart involuntarily to Rhianna, sprawled across the seats across from you. If she's getting tired, then. . . "Seven, maybe?" 

“S’that your final answer?”

“Sure, yeah.”

Charlie lets go of your face. "6:58," he says. "Damn. Looks like you owe me some meals."

"Fuck off," you say, shouldering him over as he laughs. 

The train begins to roll again. 

Your internal clock is pretty good, if you do say so. It doesn't help that you can never sleep on this god-forsaken thing. Charlie settles deeper into his seat, melting into the hard plastic like some sort of liquid.

You call yourself a colony, though you're much more like a small, traveling group. Peregrin is the name you've picked up, one that you carved from the face of the train and slapped onto your ramshackle group. Peregrin is close knit, and as much as you love them all, you think that sometimes you'd like to leave. 

Really, it's nothing personal. You just get the feeling that you could do more; if only you weren't bound by sleek metal trains and their concrete stations.

You've always had an interest in architecture. That said, there is a line to be crossed, and the stations and tunnels tend to do that. Someone (maybe Jack?) once said it's called brutalist. Strong, harsh lines, cold concrete, oddly organic forms. It looks alien, not that there's any real meaning to the word anymore. Aliens are the least of anyone's worries. You're not even sure how you know the word. 

Hours pass. You find your knee bouncing and your eyes resting on your gear, thrown into the other end of the car. Your guitar, specifically, and maybe some of the food you've collected. 

(Here's something funny: the vending machines are always stocked. You don't know by who, but you’re not exactly at liberty to look a gift horse in the mouth, here. There’s quarters, too, an indiscernible amount of quarters scattered about the trains and the stations; tucked between seats, caught under the machines, appearing in pockets as if on their own.)

It should be getting close. The rhythm of the trains is something you settle into, an organized sort of chaos that you learn in a way deeper than your brain. It settles into your heartbeat, the way the trains move, how you dance from station to station. And, wouldn't you know, the train begins it's slow fall from speed. You lurch to your feet and across the car, grabbing your backpack and your guitar before settling back beside Charlie. You wonder if they'll let you play some songs on the way to the next station.

Finally, the train heaves to a halt. It’s a silent thing, but it still carries a sort of weight when it happens, as if the train itself has finally conquered some beast. You sit back, fiddling with your guitar case as the doors slide open. 

The station is not empty.

And this is about where it all goes to shit. 

Things are up in arms in an instant. Charlie's on his feet faster than you can shout, which you do, and with all the noise the small horde is scrambling over one another to get into the train. There's no time, there's no time—you heave the bags onto your shoulders and the knife from your boot in one fell swoop, rushing forward to help Charlie and Rhianna and everyone else force a horde at least 15 wide back out onto the platform. 

You slash through the abdomen of one and slam it back across the threshold. It screams and claws back towards you, and you force your eyes from the organs sliding out of its stomach and go to cut down another. It’s surprisingly easy to fall into the rhythm, adrenaline spurring you to keep moving, keep going, keep your eyes in the back of your head and your knife in your fingers, keep your feet off of the pavement and your limbs from their grasp and—

You're pushing your knife into the rotten gut of one when you realize you're alone. You shove your arm half-through the thing and up out the side, flesh tearing in two and coating your arm in putrid ooze. You’re on the platform. When you whirl, Jack and Rhianna are holding the doors shut, and you're left on the other side of an enraged horde. 

The zombies don't notice you. They're too busy tearing into each other. You throw your foot into the side of the one you're holding and shove it into the crowd of the others, where they're clawing, gore and mud covered, at doors that just won't budge. Between manic, scrambling bodies, you catch the terrified eyes of Charlie—

And you make a decision.

You stumble backwards, looking desperately for an escape. The beasts are nowhere near quieting, and you realize belatedly that half of them are tearing into another, pressed up against the shuttle doors. The walls, the stupid walls, straight up for eons, sickly white light that you can't see the source of. Bland rectangular platforms with grimy shadows. Vending machines. Quarters.

A set of stairs carved into the back wall.

You're rushing towards them faster than you think you've ever moved. You stay, you die, and it's not as if you can just get back on the train; you need to leave, you need to run, and maybe it's selfish, but you find that in the darkest pit of your desperation that you might even  _ want  _ to go.

No time. No time for any of this. You throw yourself listlessly forward, long legs finally working to your advantage, skidding to a halt in front of the stairs that climb into pitch black. An escape. The only one.

“Wilbur!” someone (Charlie, definitely Charlie) hollers after you. The slam of bodies against the doors after makes you wince. He's muffled through fiberglass windows and the snarling of undead, and it's in that moment that time seems to stop. Cliche, sure, but it's welcome here: no matter what you choose, your life is about to change.

Peregrin, made up of the only people you've ever known, living within the only place you've ever been. Achingly familiar. And the stairs, looming up, up, up into a darkness that should scare you. Should scare you. Should scare you. Should scare you.

It doesn't.

“Wilbur, damnit—” there's a shriek of metal, and panic overwhelms you as you realize he's prying the doors back open— “get back here!”

You have been on this train forever. You have been in this station for less than a minute. You have been stuck for as long as you can remember.

You don't hesitate.

You take the first step up, you take the second, and the third, and suddenly you're scrambling up the steps faster than you've ever moved. The dark welcomes you with surprisingly (horrifically hauntingly amazingly) open arms, and soon, the only sounds that accompany you are your own footsteps, the slam of your guitar against your back, and your heavy breathing.

So you keep going. It's dark, darker than anything you think you've ever experienced, pushing down and in on you and blanketing you in a suffocated haze, dulling your senses until the thunk of your bags and the clack of your boots and the pound of your heart blur into one sound, one beat that you move in time with.

At the very least, you won't be dying quickly. Your sanity is probably pretty safe, too. Your bag, full of snack food and a change of clothes and your trusty coat. Your guitar, full of. . . air. Made of wood and metal strings and with enough weight to make you regret carrying the thing in the first place.

You find you have to force yourself to keep climbing, now. The guitar is not a good touch. You find that it weighs heavy, though whether that's physically or metaphorically is up to interpretation. Still, you can't bring yourself to part with it. Wherever you're going, you won't be playing it. Noise attracts them, and they kill, whether or not you'd like to admit it.

Keep moving. You have to keep moving, put distance between you and them. 

(You can't tell if you're talking about zombies. The thought is as sobering as it is terrifying.)

The second floor is pitch black. In fact, you only know that you've come to it when you stumble, stepping up to a stair that doesn't exist. You reel left until you hit dank concrete, leaning, hunched over against it as you try to catch your breath.

You're not used to the physical activity. You're not used to running, not used to stairs; you're used to timely fashion, to rails and tracks and singing as you go.

As you feel along unfamiliar walls, you can't help but think of how loud your footfalls are in this empty, lonely corridor.

But it's fine. It's all fine. You're not used to spontaneity, either, but for the most part this seems to be going your way.

And then the ground disappears from beneath you.

You hit the gravel with a poorly concealed scream. You note that it's wet beneath you before promptly deciding that you'd rather not think about it. Your hands crawl up to rest beneath your shoulders, and you stall, holding your breath and waiting for an enemy that you're sure is lurking in the dark.

Look; you're not a paranoid person. Not traditionally, at least. But you figure that a little bit of fear can't hurt you.

After an indiscernible amount of time—no clock to guide you, no Rhianna to monitor the patterns of, no flickering lights to tell you—you push yourself up with your arms into a kneel. The gravel shifts beneath your palms, and your foot shifts and strikes firm metal, and—oh. You're on the tracks. You're on the tracks of some parallel rail station, some 30-odd feet above where you were before.

(Funny how even in leaving, you come to the same situation. 

The deja vu is no longer comforting.)

You force yourself to your feet, guitar weighing you down and attempting to flip you like a turtle onto your back. You tug the strap down your chest, heaving your bags higher on your shoulder, and take a moment to examine the rough shapes you can make out.

Across from you, another ledge to another platform. To your left and right, the gaping maws of two twin tunnels.

You pick one and start walking.

For some reason, you don’t think that the trains up here run. The darkness, inescapable and smothering, leads you to believe that this place hasn’t been touched in a long time. Whatever was powering downstairs is clearly failing up here. The gravel crunches beneath your boots, echoing up the tunnel and coming back to bite into your ears. You can only hope there isn’t another horde waiting for you.

Gradually, after miles or feet or days or seconds, you find the ground sloping up. You don’t pass any more stations—at least, not any that you can see—but you do realize that the black is lifting into a hazy grey. It’s getting lighter, and you don’t think it’s from fluorescents this time.

Someone (maybe—? No, no one now) once told you that the stations were sealed off and that’s why you never saw anyone else. You’re half inclined to believe they’re right until you nearly walk into the back of another train.

Curse you and your tendency to look down, you suppose. The train is different from the ones you’ve ridden: for starters, it’s not moving, and you don’t think it has in a while. It’s filthy, too, covered in grime and rust and looking utterly unlike anything you’re used to. 

It’s with a start you realize it’s bright in here.

The sunlight (you assume it’s sunlight, it’s too yellow to be anything  _ but _ sunlight) coats your face, your hands, your body and your boots and your guitar case. It reflects off of the metal of the train car and into the station to your right.

It’s a tight squeeze, what with the stupid hulking train nearly making it inaccessible, but you manage to heave yourself up over the edge and onto the platform. You’re glad to be rid of the gravel at the very least. The station prompts some strange sense of nostalgia; it’s a parallel universe-type feeling, coated in grime and, surprisingly, graffiti. Not at all like the stations you’re used to, but with the same layout. You feel too pure to exist here, somehow, coated in blood and gravel and who-knows-what-else.

The train is broken. You stumble back to look at it more wholly, inhaling sharp through your nose. The windows are busted in, and the seats have been pulled from their anchoring and strewn about haphazardly. No quarters, no vending machines, no Peregrin.

In thick, black paint, across the far wall of the thing:  **IM INVISIBLE**

You swallow and turn away.

There’s plants, too, which is a detail you’re surprised to find surprising. It makes sense. You’re up near the sun, and things grow wherever they can, which just so happens to include now-abandoned train stations. Little green things, forcing themselves up from between cracked concrete. 

Strange. It’s all strange, very strange and incomprehensible and you find that you don’t want to lose your momentum, now. So you take one last look at this train, a thing so familiar yet so backwards that it makes you sick to your stomach, and turn away. Pick a corridor, molded concrete and brutalist architecture, and you keep walking.

Leave it in the past. You run your fingers over the walls. Leave it in the past; you’ve no use for it now. Drop the train, drop the people, drop Peregrin and keep moving. You have to keep moving. 

You have been on this train forever.    


You aren’t anymore. 

**Author's Note:**

> haha if you saw this before no you didnt <3 im good at clicking "save as draft" and not "post" haha <3 
> 
> back to this universe earlier than i thought i would be LETS GOOOOOOOOOOOO  
> so i guess the second person is just a Thing now, uh, it'll probably carry into the other two "introductions" before (if) we ever get to the main story
> 
> the series title is just a placeholder because the titles of Both Fics are from the album Piano is Evil by amanda palmer (WHO I LOVE SO MUCH,,,,) (actually theyre from the song berlin which fucking ROCKS so,)
> 
> okay okay i think that's all i Love You wuh oh <3 <3 <3 thank you for reading !!!


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